The Powers That Be
by NightsDawne
Summary: A post-game Shadowhearts adventure starring Keith, Margarete, and the rest of the gang on the trail of Dracula in World War I. Some violence and language. Chapter 6: Keith struggles to come to grips with the 20th century.
1. Not Quiet on the Eastern Front

Shadowhearts: The Powers That Be  
by NightsDawne

For those of you who haven't played this top Hall of Famer for PS2 RPGs, Shadowhearts is set in semi-historical Earth in 1913, a gothic horror fantasy that takes place on two continents. It's the best PS2 RPG yet, so join the cult ranks who have fallen in love with this fantastic story and the wonderful cast of characters created by former Squaresoft writers. This story takes place after the game, a couple of years into World War I, when two of the heroes of the prewar era start off on a journey to face a new and yet old threat, one that will require the aid of their former companions if freedom is to be salvaged.

The following characters belong to Sacnoth/Midway: Margarete, Keith, Halley, Yuri, Alice, Zhuzhen, Meiyuan, Roger Bacon, Albert Simon. Vlad IV is based on a historical figure and the fictional account by Bram Stoker, however, as is usually done with him, I add in my own take on the legend. Other characters are historical figures and original characters, placed in semi-historical events in actual places in keeping with the theme of Shadowhearts.

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Chapter 1: Not Quiet on the Eastern Front

**Tirgoviste, Transylvania, 1916**

The French spy crawled across the war scarred field, trenches running like deep wounds in the earth that absorbed the blood of the dead and dying. The enemy were only a hundred yards away, but invisible in the clinging Hungarian mist. She dropped down into a trench and ran along in a crouch. Soldiers noted her passing with starts and frightened glances before going back to their tense wait for the enemy to expose themselves. Perhaps in less perilous times the sight of a beautiful woman on a battlefield would have caused more distraction, but the pure carnage of the assault had left the men with little immediate interest in anything beyond survival.

She ducked into a small shelter that stood as the only form of command post on this far front line. Two weary Romanian officers drank a bitter potion of coffee and vodka, the strain of battle showing in lines that made them appear to be ghosts of old men rather than middle-aged soldiers. She snapped off a curt salute, sliding her helmet off. "Major Batishinov and Captain Livani?"

Major Batishinov, his Russian ancestry clear in sharp features and narrow eyes above a hawk nose, nodded. "You are the special agent sent by the Allies?" he asked in a gruff voice mangled in thickly accented English.

She nodded, giving them her code name. "Malkovich, from Paris HQ." In spite of being French, her accent in English was perfected to the point where anyone would think she had been born in New York rather than Provence.

"I see. I was expecting a man." Other than this the major failed to show any surprise. It was quite possible that he had worn out the ability to do so in the harsh months of battle. "Come this way, I will show you what it is that you are here for."

He turned and spoke to his fellow officer in Romanian, receiving a short reply that Margarete took to be understanding, and ducked through the small entry into the next room. Margarete tucked her helmet under her arm, flashed a charming smile to the captain, and followed. A flickering oil lamp showed a dozen bodies laid under ragged coats, the smell of death pungent in the air. Margarete put her hand to her face and crouched down next to one of the lifeless forms, pulling back the coat over it. The frequency with which she had come face to face with death recently did nothing to stop the sense of nausea that crept over her as she looked down at the dead man, his face bloated by the gases of putrefaction, but two puncture wounds clearly visible along his jugular vein.

"Were the bodies cleaned in any way?"

The major raised a brow. "We do not have water enough to bathe ourselves, with what would we clean the dead? They do not any longer need to impress."

"Then where's the blood?" Margarete lifted the coat further, looking for any sign of other injury. "If he was shot in the neck, he should have bled somewhat, shouldn't he? There's not even any pooling around the wound under the skin, no bruising. No blood anywhere."

Batishinov lit a cigarette. "Do you think that for being shot in the neck we would ask for a special agent? Those are not bullet wounds."

"Too small for a bayonet." Margarete stood, dropping the coat back over the dead man. "Well, what then, Major?"

Batishinov let out a heavy breath and looked away. "We are in Transylvania, Tirgoviste. It is here that Vlad IV resided."

"Oh, yes, well, that explains it all." Margarete put a hand to her hip. "Who was Vlad IV?"

"Vlad IV was also known as Vlad the Impaler. Vlad the Son of the Devil. In the local language, Vlad Dracula."

"Count Dracula?" Margarete pursed her lips. "You're telling me these men were killed by a vampire?"

Batishinov looked up sharply. "I expected you would not believe. However, my men do believe. It is all I can do to keep them from deserting."

"Actually, I do believe you." Margarete looked around at the other bodies. "I guess you can bury them now, poor souls." She ran a hand over her silken blond hair, pulled back into a ponytail, and replaced her helmet, then turned to head back out. "Tell your men to focus on the battle and leave the vampire to me."

**Blue Castle, Transylvania**

"Keith. Keith, wake up. God, if I have to I'll shoot you. Not in the face, of course, you're too pretty for that."

Keith felt someone shaking him, pinching his arm, and finally tickling him under the chin. The immortal sleep made it rather difficult for him to come to consciousness, but he could hear and feel quite well. It was a quite familiar voice, speaking French with a lovely Parisian accent. Fingernails tapped on the marble edge of his coffin in frustration.

"Damn, shooting you isn't going to do any good either, is it. I lit all the torches, isn't that supposed to wake you up? Or was it something else? Why do you have to be such a deep sleeper?!" Keith felt a light slap on his cheeks, but he still struggled against the coma-like grip of sleep. He pondered what could bring Margarete to his side once more. Was it another god of destruction come to smite the world? Couldn't be. They had killed the powerful summoner Albert Simon and destroyed the beacon that drew the alien attackers. A wedding invitation perhaps? Ah, yes, that could be it. Yuri and Alice had finally decided to marry. What a sweet thing to wake for. His lips drew into the slightest bit of a smile.

"What are you grinning about?! You're doing this on purpose!" He heard Margarete's exasperated sigh and could easily envision her pretty face pinched into a pout. He sincerely hoped she wouldn't shoot him. It wasn't how he wanted to wake up, to be perfectly honest. He felt the warmth of her face as it bent over his, then soft lips against his own. She was kissing him? Was she trying to take advantage of his immobility or did she think he was sleeping beauty? If she would just be patient he would manage the task of waking up on his own, but then again, patience was not a virtue Margarete was known for. He felt movement creeping back into his limbs and slowly raised his arm, wrapping it around her, then awoke fully, pulling her off her feet as he swiftly rolled over, yanking the startled spy into the coffin with him.

Keith opened pale green eyes and looked into the face of the woman sprawled halfway on top of him. "I would have woken up as soon as you gave me a moment or two anyhow, but that was certainly.. interesting."

Margarete furrowed her brow. "Well, I'm not the kind who can bore anyone, even you. And as interesting as it may be to explore the activities you could come up with in this coffin, it's really not made for two people. Mind letting me up? We've got a mission."

Keith released his hold on her, letting her sit up and climb back out of the coffin, noting her appearance. She didn't look much older than when he had last seen her, still young and beautiful, her firm body managing even to make a soldier's uniform look absolutely enticing. Blond hair like silken flax was pulled into a ponytail to keep it from falling into cornflower blue eyes. He sat up, leaning against the edge of the coffin. "I'm retired, remember? Why are you dressed like that? And how long have I been asleep?"

"Yes, but I need your help, because it's easier to move in around here, and almost two years." Margarete tapped his nose with her finger. "You don't know what you've missed. Shortly after you fell asleep Ferdinand was assassinated."

Keith raised a brow. "The Archduke? Whatever for?"

Margarete rolled her eyes. "You really didn't pay attention to the local politics the last time you woke up, did you. The monarchy has all but collapsed. The Hungarians and the Austrians are rabid and working with Germany on an attempt to take over Europe, you dolt. The Magyars really put it to the Romanians for a long time and your little province here is a point of heavy dispute."

Keith frowned. "But almost all the villagers here are Romanian. Even if Transylvania is part of Hungary we are Romanian at heart."

"Exactly. Wait, you're a noble. Aren't you descended from the Magyars?"

Keith shook his head. "No, our crown comes directly from the Slavic line. But tell me, what is happening?"

"No wonder there's no treasure in this castle. Hrmph." Margarete straightened her jacket. "What's going on is that almost all of Europe is at war. Austria and Hungary along with Germany against everyone else who doesn't like the idea of being ruled by William II. Romania invaded Transylvania to free it from Hungarian rule and now there's more blood being spilled than anyone ever imagined was possible. It seems man can do as much to man as the God of Destruction could if he was loosed." She sighed. "And speaking of blood, it seems the Magyars have someone else fighting on their side. Someone who's got the Romanian troops panicked."

Keith tucked his hair behind his ear. "And who would that be?"

"Well, according to the Romanians, Vlad IV. You've heard of him?"

Keith's eyes narrowed. "Vlad Dracula? He is awake?"

"And feeding, from what I understand." Margarete tilted her head. "So, you interested in helping me out?"

Keith tumbled out of the coffin, reaching for the heavy broadsword that lay at the bottom, nestled against the red velvet lining. "Looks like I'm coming out of retirement again. I am at your service, Mademoiselle."

"Still charming." Margarete winked and started down the steps of the dais Keith's coffin rested on above the vault that held the rest of his sleeping family members. "Too bad we're always busy when we're together."

Keith strapped on his sword as he followed. "You never gave me reason to stay awake."

Margarete snorted. "I believe it was you who said 'I tire of the hustle and bustle of the 20th century.'"

"And it was you who said 'Go back to your quiet and boring old castle, I could never grow roots like you do.'" Keith caught up to walk next to her with no effort. "I thought that was a clear sign of disinterest."

"No, it was an interest in life. Which you need more of, dear handsome Keith. You could have come with me to Paris."

"And you could have invited me," Keith chided softly.

Margarete glanced at the tall blond from the corner of her eye. In reality, there were too many reasons why she hadn't. He still seemed to be from a different era, even if they had managed to get him more modern clothes than the suit he had been wearing when he woke from a two century sleep two years ago. He looked young, no more than twenty five, but he would look that way forever. How could she risk falling in love with someone who would go on being young and handsome after her beauty had started to fade? It wasn't like she had that many years left before men stopped staring at her when she crossed a street. She was already thirty. Could someone like Keith even fall in love? His charm masked a bored detachment from life that she could never determine the origins of, his race or simply having lived too long to care about anything for more than a passing fancy, something to while away his time with and keep him from going mad. "No sense talking about it. We've got a job to do." She lifted her chin, steeling herself against the memory of kissing his cool and smooth lips.

"Yes, of course." Keith smiled a bit ruefully. "A mission." He looked away from her, preventing her from even having his expression to try to fathom his thoughts, whether they were on her or an enemy he seemed too personally familiar with.


	2. Men, Gods of Destruction

Shadowhearts: The Powers That Be  
by NightsDawne

[Begging the forgiveness of the Gods of History, here is where we get into mingling with factual events. Verdun and The Somme were real and horrific battles that cost the lives of hundreds of thousands of young men for very little gain in terms of change in the battle lines, and were the scenes for outstanding acts of valor and heroism. These two battles epitomized the trauma of trench warfare, and while this is a fictional account, I decided to honor the real life heroes by including some of them in the story. For the factual accounts of men like Captain Eric Norman Franklin Bell, killed in battle July 1st, 1916 and posthumously awarded the Victoria Cross, I recommend you go to the excellent site World War I, the Great War, at http://www.rockingham.k12.va.us/EMS/WWI/WWI.html.]

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Chapter 2: Men, Gods of Destruction

**The Somme, France, June 1916**

Life was the pits. Literally. The young soldier had lived in them for months in Verdun and the only place where one stood at least half a chance of surviving, he had learned all too well, was crawling like a half-drowned rat through a muddy trench filled with disease, infection, and the remnants of thousands of men suffering in ways no human should be made to endure. He'd stopped being able to smell the blood, excrement, and decay. It was all that filled the air he'd breathed since he joined the fight. He'd gotten to the point where it no longer bothered him to steal the tattered uniform from a dead man's corpse to pad his feet in hopes of staving off frostbite, then pile the body on top of the crumbling sandbags on the edge of the trench to create a wall high enough to stand and shoot from. Between these moments of relative safety were the true nightmares, the rushes across the field of battle into the teeth of the enemy, all sense of the epic proportions of the war obscured in muzzle fire and smoke that dampened vision and left only the whistle and roar of artillery and the screams of dying men to guide the young warrior. He sometimes wondered if it would have been this bad to loose the God of Destruction on the world rather than let the Germans make their merciless march across Europe. Now he'd been transferred in an order from Sir Douglas Haig himself, called from the daily bloodbath to another spot on the Western Front, another line of muddy trenches, another spot in Hell. He was expected to make a difference.

He slipped through the flap of the command tent and removed his helmet, his face bearing an aged look that could only be earned through the kind of torture that was existance at Verdun. The orderly paused as if he saw in the young man's eyes a damnation inflicted not by God, but by his fellow man. "Can I help you, sir?"

"Second Lieutenant Halley Brancket, British Army, 23rd Division. I've been reassigned to the 36th Division and was told to report here." Halley dropped his blood-spattered papers on the cheap wood desk that served as office furniture.

The orderly scanned the documents briefly. "Just a moment, sir." He stood and quickly made his way through the partition to the quarters of the commander. Halley kept his mind from drifting into thoughts of the recent horrors at Verdun by counting. It wasn't much of an exercise, but his mind was as exhausted as his body and spirit and it was enough.

The partition opened after only a few minutes and the orderly waved to Halley. "This way, sir." Halley walked forward, unable to care about his appearance or the impression it would make on his superiors. The orderly seemed a bit at a loss, as if he had thought he'd seen the worst of battle fatigue only to have Halley set a new standard. "Can I get you some coffee, sir?"

"Black." Halley managed a bit of a dry smile. It was a joke in a place where coffee itself was a luxury and milk and sugar were only dreams of a past that seemed irretrievable. The orderly merely nodded and hurried to get a mess cup. Halley shrugged off the failure of his humor and looked to the man behind the cheap wood desk that was only distinguished from it's counterpart in the front area of the tent by a few square inches of size. "Reporting as ordered, sir." He managed to remember to salute properly, at least.

The commander studied the young soldier with a mixture of shock and awe. "So you're Brancket?"

"Yes, sir, so I've been told since birth."

The commander stood, a tall man, the very image of a British officer. Stern, powerful, meticulous even in miserable surroundings. "I've heard amazing things about you, Lieutenant. Heard that you can save lives by calling on powers, heard that you can even attack with these same powers. Some say you're an angel. Others say you're a demon."

"No, sir, I'm a British soldier." Halley wondered if he was going to be called on to be the Army's travelling freak. In less desperate times, using his powers would likely have earned him a stay in a mental hospital or a prison lest the general public be panicked by something they couldn't understand. In the greatest of wars that had ever been witnessed, however, he was treated as a secret weapon and hailed as a hero. He couldn't see how he filled either role, for men continued to die and the lines refused to budge no matter how much blood was spilled. His abilities only slowed the attrition rate, they weren't enough to turn the tides of Hell itself.

The commander chuckled. "Good answer, lad. I'm Sir Henry Rawlinson. I requested you because here is where we'll break the German lines. It's a do or die operation here, Brancket."

"They all are, sir. Place me in the line and I'll do my best." Halley took the cup of coffee presented by the orderly and drank it down. It tasted worse than things he'd turned down living on the streets of London as a child, but his tastebuds had been dulled much the way his sense of smell had and it would keep him awake.

"Good job then, lad. You'll report to the 9th Royal Inniskilling Fusiliers under Captain Bell. Think you can handle being wrapped up with the Micks?"

Halley shrugged. "If they can handle a London Rat, sir, I've no complaints."

Rawlinson laughed. "You've spirit enough to handle the Ulster Division. Alright then, Brancket, off with you, then."

Halley saluted again and made a crisp turn to walk out, letting his stride slip back to a tired pace once he was out of the command office. The coffee was enough to keep him meagerly sharp but it did nothing to ease the heaviness of his feet as he coursed his way into the warrior ranks once more, winding around the network of trenches to the woods where his new division lay in wait of the upcoming offensive. He smiled a bit as the accent changed from thick throated Welsh to crisp British and finally to the quick and sharp tones of Irish, closer to the lyrical quality of the cockney he was used to. The uniforms the men wore were newer than those he'd been more recently accustomed to seeing, but none-the-less a rag-tag offering resulting from shortages for the new recruits drummed up to keep the ranks filled as the experienced soldiers were killed or maimed. Only half a year into their military careers, most of the men of the 36th were still able to drum up enthusiasm and an effort to show their spirit. He tried not to look at faces, not wanting to remember them so alive if he later came across them gray and cold. With a few quiet queries he was able to locate his new officer and approached Captain Bell as he peered over a map in fierce concentration.

"Captain Bell? Lieutenant Brancket. I've been assigned to you."

Bell looked up in sharp surprise, blue eyes scanning Halley. "Are you sure you're in the right place? This is the Ulster Division."

Halley nodded. "I'm aware of that, sir. You don't sound overly Irish yourself."

Bell grinned. "You've found me out, eh? Born in Ulster, though I was raised in Liverpool. Proud to fight under my country's name, though. Trained with trench mortar bombs, I hope?"

Halley shook his head. "Not particularly. I've thrown a few grenades. I'm infantry. Been fighting in Verdune."

"Verdune, I see." Bell's voice took on a bit of awe. "Understand it's worse there than here. Well, it's not that much different than a grenade, just larger and sends out lots of shrapnel."

Halley exhaled slowly. "I've been on the receiving team enough to know the effects."

"Right." Bell pursed his lips a bit. "Well, you'll be on the giving end now. Come along then, I guess I'll have to train you on the job to be some use at least." He crouched next to a long tube of steel cradled on two legs and a base. "This is the Stokes. Unlike the fixed mortars, this one can move. Not that there's been much call for mobility, but that's the point of it."

Halley crouched next to the captain and studied the weapon. "I'm supposed to learn how to use this?"

"Well, I'll grant you won't have much time for drills. Are you sure you're supposed to be here?"

Halley shrugged. "They have their reasons. I'll do my best."

Bell accepted that with a grim nod. "Personally, I don't think they give us much credit to begin with, being Irish. Any mathematics in your education? Engineering? Architecture?" He sighed as Halley shook his head. "Right then, well, we'll sally on anyhow. Aiming is a careful calculation of explosive charge and lining up this white line here on your target. The more charge, the farther the bomb will go, simple enough?" He paused, considering the impossibility of training someone in the use of the Stokes in the middle of a battlefield. "Tell you what. You stick to covering me and helping carry the blasted thing, I'll worry about setting the charges."

Halley sighed with relief. "Works for me. I'm pretty sure I can handle that much."

"Right then." Bell clapped Halley on the shoulder. "We'll just stick to setting it up then. Breaks down into three bits. Barrel, base, and bipod. Clamp here, here, and here." He gave Halley a quick demonstration of the disassembly and assembly process. "Do you have it?"

"Well enough, I suppose." Halley rubbed the side of his face, struggling to stay awake.

"You're done in, lad," commented Bell. "Go get some sleep. The Germans will still be here in the morning, blast them to hell."

Halley stood, too weary for even a stretch. "That's the general plan, I believe. Good night, Captain."

A week had passed since he'd joined up with the Ulsters. It seemed a vacation compared to Verdun. There was fighting, to be sure, but nothing like the intensity he'd grown accustomed to and his unit had enjoyed relative peace sheltered by the trees of Theipval Wood. They'd mostly been involved in the non-stop shelling meant to soften the German lines for their assault. Today they'd be called on to leave their shelter and do their bit against the German lines, five hundred yards uphill and exposed, another four hundred to their objective at the Schwaben Redoubt. It seemed inevitable that Halley awoke to dawn's drizzle, not enough water to refresh, just enough to raise the smell of filth and mildew from his uniform. He dragged himself to his feet to get his share of a hearty breakfast of biscuits and coffee.

"Hey, London!" Halley nodded to the new greeting that had become his hail and held out his mess for his portion, then found a spot to slide down next to the young Irishman who'd called to him. The private couldn't be older than sixteen, yet another of those who'd lied about their age to savor the romance of war, but Halley couldn't judge him for it. In spite of his own haggard appearance, he was under the age of recruitment himself, only fifteen when he'd presented a false birth certificate to fight the German threat, now barely seventeen. Any ideas of the romance of war had been beaten out of him months ago, however, and now he simply fought to make it to eighteen. He envied Private Farlane the youth he still was able to wear. Farlane swirled his coffee, looking less cheerful than usual. "How can you eat? We're to go into it today, you know."

"Food is food and it's not boiled rat." Halley swallowed some coffee to soften the biscuit he was chewing. "This is your first major battle?"

Farlane nodded. "Going to fetch a German helmet for my kid brother." Halley merely offered a nod and continued with his meal. Farlane watched him curiously for a moment. "Can't be like Verdun, London. We'll be taking it to them this time, and there can't be much left after all the shelling. The Huns're all dead or hiding or run off like cowards by now."

"Don't get overconfident." Halley swallowed the last of his biscuit and stowed his mess with a toss. "You don't keep your eyes open, you'll fetch only a bullet for your trophy." He stood, leaving the private to a sober silence, and made his way over to Bell.

The captain glanced up at Halley with a short nod. "Ready for it, lad?"

"Would it matter? I'll be there whether I am or not."

"I suppose that's the case," agreed Bell. "Full equipment, we'll be following the infantry, regimental."

"What?" Halley leaned against the side of the trench, studying the yards of No Man's Land that stretched with little cover to the German trenches. "What are they thinking? We'll be out in the open and loaded down, sitting ducks."

"That's the orders, lad, that's what we'll do. We'll use what cover we can, but we'll keep the rank and file. Don't worry, the Germans haven't shown much at all since the shelling." Bell clapped the younger man on the shoulder. "Chin up, mustn't let the lads get upset. You're an officer."

Halley swallowed, then dropped his head against his hand to rub his eyes. "Right. Regimental, full equipment. We'll need the morale." As if in answer, the skies opened above them and the real downpour began.


	3. Blood and Fire

Shadowhearts: The Powers That Be  
by NightsDawne 

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Chapter 3: Blood and Fire

**Bistrita, Romania, 28 June 1916**

Margarete watched through the cafe window the nearly deserted street, abandoned in spite of the flickering gaslights by townspeople too afraid to be out after sunset. Only a policeman on his rounds and a stray dog provided motion to the scene. For two weeks she and Keith had followed a trail of bodies, first soldiers, then civilians, not once catching sight of their elusive prey. She was beginning to regret having promised Major Batishinov that she could take care of the vampire problem. The attacks were becoming more and more frequent and scattered throughout the country. She stirred her coffee and turned her gaze to the blond vampire idly picking over some potato dish she hadn't found any flavor in. "So you're Slavic? Valentine isn't a Slavic name."

Keith glanced up. "It isn't. My great-grandmother married a Roman general and took his name. In case you haven't noticed, my family is rather eclectic in first names as well. Our title and lands are from the Slavic line, though. Originally Federovs."

"Keith Fedorov Valentine. It's like an international smorgasbord."

Keith laughed. "It gets worse, my full name would be Keith Jean-Phillipe Christopher Maximillian Alessandro Marc-Anthony Federov Valentine."

"International and pretentious," smirked Margarete. "No wonder you just go by Keith."

"My theory is that my family is intent on including every name on the Earth in our lineage, and having fewer generations, we have to rely on giving everyone more than their share to make up for it."

Margarete nodded, returning her gaze to the street outside. "What are your theories on our current problem?"

"I'm holding out for more evidence before I finalize any thoughts on the matter." Keith finally took a bite of his dinner after having separated the ingredients with the meticulous attention of a finicky two year old.

"Just say you don't know if you don't know."

Keith smiled to her. "I don't know. Happy?"

"I'll be happy when we finally catch up with this monster. I'll be happy when this damned war is over. I'll be happy when innocent people aren't being rounded up to be used for slave labor or killed because they happen to be the wrong race or religion and when the young men of Europe aren't being blown to bits for no good reason other than the fact that there's more young men where they came from."

Keith pursed his lips and pushed his plate away. "Yes, well..." His formulation of a reply suitable to such a speech was cut off by a scream from outside. He and Margarete looked to each other and were on their feet in an instant, racing for the door. The policemen was nowhere to be seen, but the dog's frantic barking and anxious stare into the alley across from the cafe directed them to the trouble.

Keith drew his broadsword, holding it easily in one hand as he strode toward the dark recess. Margarete chose a more cautious route, cradling her pistol in her hands as she ran across the street to the cover of the wall of the inn they'd purchased a room in for the night, then edged to the corner of the alley to provide cover for her less vulnerable partner. He was likely enjoying this. She herself loved the thrill of the hunt, but for Keith it was something different. He held a perverse pleasure in danger as if only the thought of being killed gave him a sense of life. Not that he was easy to kill. He himself was a vampire, although by birth rather than creation, untainted by drinking blood and unaffected by the more traditionally suffered curses of his race.

Keith stepped into the alley, his eyes scarcely affected by the darkness, easily spotting the two uniformed figures locked in an embrace near the kitchen door of the inn. The taller figure looked up, dropping the crumpled and lifeless form of his victim and smiling slowly, then burst through the kitchen door to make his escape. Keith followed, his long legs allowing him to easily match the pace of the other vampire. "He's in the inn, Margarete!" He paused by the policeman's body to check that there were no signs of life before entering the abandoned kitchen.

Margarete cursed silently to herself and ran for the inn door. So they finally had Vlad cornered. Well, this would definitely make a great story to tell in a bar someday, how she and a Slavic-Latin vampire slew the legendary master of the undead. The lobby was deserted except for the startled clerk. Margarete flashed him a charming smile. "Rat in the kitchen." She waved her pistol cheerfully and ducked through the small dining area, then slowed to a walk towards the kitchen door. She reached out to push the swinging door open, but was startled by it suddenly opening into her face, knocking her back onto her rear as a pale Austrian soldier burst through, blood staining his lips and shirt.

"Oh, shit." Margarete rolled out of the soldier's way, but found herself without room to complete it and get to her feet as she knocked into a table. The soldier made a dive for her and grabbed her ankle. Margarete struggled against a powerful grip to crawl to safety. "A little help, Keith?!"

A dry cackle spilled from the soldier's lips, but was suddenly cut off with the sharp wet sound of steel carving through flesh and bone. The grip on her ankle fell loose and Margarete yanked her foot away, scooting out from under the table to stand. Keith stood calmly as if he'd done nothing more than swat a fly, the headless body of the vampire at his feet.

"Are you alright?" Keith asked gently.

"Fine." Margarete smoothed her hair. "I must be getting rusty."

"Anyone can be caught off guard. Besides, with legs like those, you're hard to resist." Keith strode over to the head, perched like a centerpiece on one of the tables.

"Well doesn't that make me feel better." Margarete gave the body a halfhearted kick. "At least it's over. Dressing up like an Austrian soldier. Not a great disguise for this neck of the woods, Vlad."

"It's not Vlad." Keith hefted the head in one hand and surveyed its features. "It wasn't even a strong vampire. Recently made, I'd say."

"What do you mean? You _are_ going to wash your hands after that, aren't you?" Margarete holstered her pistol and stepped over to have a look at the trophy Keith was holding.

"Naturally." Keith turned it so she could see before tossing it into the fireplace. "And I mean just what I said. It's not Vlad IV. He has brown eyes and dark hair. Of course, this does explain the epidemic of victims."

"More than one vampire." Margarete watched as Keith covered the head with logs and kindling, then lit it. "You know, that's going to make an awful stench."

"No worse than the food here does. Besides, it's necessary to make sure it won't be revived." Keith stepped back. "The real question is, how many vampires? If the others are as new as this one, they won't be able to make more vampires yet. Which means we're still after Vlad."

"Only chasing bodies isn't going to lead us to him." Margarete sighed. "So what do we do?"

Keith walked over to get his sword from the table and sauntered back into the kitchen. "The soldier was Austrian. I say we make a little journey to Vienna."

"Vienna. Are you totally mad?" Margarete stormed after Keith. "There is a war going on and Vienna is right in the middle of enemy territory. It's not like we can just take a train there, you know."

Keith glanced over his shoulder as he washed his hands at the sink. "You're the spy, mon amie. Isn't slipping behind enemy lines your specialty?"

Margarete put a hand on her hip. "That's it, appeal to my pride and our friendship in one blow. Fine. I'll get us there somehow. But what are we going to do about the rest of the vampires if we're going after Vlad?"

Keith smiled, drying his sword and sheathing it. "I'll go to the telegraph office in the morning. You have their address?"

Margarete grinned. "I have it. She's going to hate you for dragging him back into action, you know."

"Hate who, me?" Keith took Margarete's hand in his and lifted it to his lips for a kiss. "I'll just be very polite in my request."

"One of these days your charm is going to get you in trouble." Margarete failed to draw her hand from his, succumbing to Keith's smile.

**Zurich, Switzerland, 29 June 1916**

"Do you think peach or strawberry would be best for the filling of the cake, Yuri?" The petite and pretty girl with the angelic face turned to her fiancé. "Yuri! Wake up!"

Yuri gave a start and opened his eyes. "Yeah, white dress, flowers, all that shit."

"Don't curse." Alice softened her rebuke with a kiss, then gazed lovingly on the handsome Eurasian features of her beloved, reaching up to brush auburn hair from his golden eyes. "This is for our wedding. Don't you want it to be special?"

Yuri slipped his arm around her tiny waist. "It will be special. You'll be there and that's all that matters to me. That and we'll finally be married and I can--"

Alice put her fingers over his lips before he could complete any crudeness. "Is that all that matters to you, the wedding night?"

Yuri shook his head. "No, you know it isn't. How many times do I gotta say it? I love you, alright?"

"I know, Yuri. Even if it took forever for you to say it, I know. Now, peach or strawberry?"

"Um, peach." Yuri straightened slightly and pulled his hand back as Alice's mother walked into the sitting room. "Afternoon, Mrs. Elliot." Alice got her looks and coloring from her Swiss mother, but since they were relying on her for both room and board and Yuri's job in her bookstore, he couldn't help feeling, if not actual intimidation, at least a compulsion to keep on her good side.

"Behaving like a gentleman as always, Yuri?" Mrs. Elliot shook her head with a smile. Her future son-in-law had his good points, but he was hardly what she'd imagined for her sweet daughter. "There's a telegram for you. From Romania." She held it out to him.

Yuri took it with a raised brow. "Who do I know in Romania?"

Alice leaned over his arm. "Maybe it's from Keith. But how would he know about the wedding? He's asleep and we haven't sent the invitations."

Yuri shrugged and opened it. "Maybe it's one of your old friends. It's from Bistrita. No, it is from Keith." He fell silent as he read the message over, Alice peering over to see as well. "Well, looks like the wedding is going to have to be postponed for a bit. Damn."

Alice paled, not even bothering to comment on Yuri's language. "But we can't. In Romania? That's where the war is."

"Alice, we fought all kinds of shit just two years ago, including a God of Destruction. You think I can't handle a war? Don't go soft on me now, Miss Exorcist. This is right up your alley."

"Would someone mind telling me what's going on and why you're even discussing leaving Switzerland to go into God knows what?" Mrs. Elliot looked anxiously between the two young people who were the only family she had left.

"Keith and Margarete are hunting vampires in Romania." Yuri handed over the telegram. "They're going after the main one and need us to clean up the rest of the sons of bitches."

"Yuri..." Alice sighed, for the moment giving up on the never-ending campaign to curb her fiancé's rude side. "I suppose we have to go."

Mrs. Elliot sat down after reading the telegram over. "Why you? Haven't you done enough for the world?"

"Don't worry, Mrs. Elliot." Yuri got to his feet, taking Alice's hand to help her up after him. "I'll protect her. I've still got that wedding night to get through, so no bullets are gonna touch me."


	4. Some Sacrificed All

Shadowhearts: The Powers That Be  
by NightsDawne 

* * *

Chapter 4: Some Sacrificed All

**The Somme, France, 1 July 1916**

_Dear Father and Mother,  
The rain stopped two days ago and the delays are over. We're to take the offensive to the Germans today. There's mud and noise everywhere. There's been so many heavy guns about laying hell on the German lines you can't spit without hitting one. The Irish are all pleased it will be today, on the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne, that we finally leave our side and take on the enemy. I try to match their cheer, but it's hard work after the things I've seen already. I can't help a feeling that things aren't going to be as easy as everyone thinks. Sure, the German side has been all but silent the past week, but I can't shake this ominous sense of tragedy waiting for us up that hill. Sometimes I can't help thinking that maybe Albert Simon was right, that this world is too cruel, too bent on its own destruction. Not that I agree with his way of handling things, trying to wipe the slate clean by killing everyone off, but this war does seem to prove his point at times. I hate writing these letters, knowing that they'll only be read if they're pulled from my pocket after I've been killed, but I still feel the need to put these thoughts on paper. I hope they won't be my last. No, I won't be so pessimistic. There's a reason I'm fighting, and the world doesn't deserve to be destroyed, whether by a god or by William II. When I lose heart, all I have to think about is you waiting for me in America, Chris and the kids at your side. It's you I'm fighting for, all of you. And for the other boys here wanting to make it home. God willing, you'll never read this and I'll tell you myself when I make it back._

_All my love,  
Halley_

Halley slipped the letter in his pocket and shrugged into his heavy pack, then shouldered the heavy barrel of the Stokes, lifting his rifle with his other hand. Bell strode to his side, looking rather cumbersome with mortar bombs attached all over him, two bags of powder, and full equipment.

"Bright clear day for it at least, eh, Brancket?" Bell cast a grim smile to his younger companion.

Halley shifted the weight of the barrel. "Going to be hot this afternoon."

"You think it will take us that long?" The twenty year old captain surveyed the lines of troops hidden in the thick cover of the woods, awaiting their turn at the surge of humanity that would be flung in the face of the Germans. "Less than a thousand yards to the Redoubt."

"A thousand yards at Verdun might as well be a thousand miles."

"Good thing this isn't Verdun then, right?" Bell held his chin up. "You're with the Ulster men now, lad. We may be green, but we're fighters."

"Yes, sir." Halley worked up a dry smile. "I'll do my best."

The roar of the shells suddenly stopped, silence falling so hard Halley's ears rang. The immediate tension was palpable, like a cloud of sweat, nerves, and fear enveloping the British line as time froze. He felt his heart beating in his chest, could imagine every man experiencing the same surreal sensation of timelessness for the few seconds of peace, then the air was pierced by bugles and whistles. The battle had begun.

As if they were racers spurred on by a starting pistol, thousands of men stretched along the line rose from their trenches, tumbling like a wave towards the enemy. Directly in front of him Halley watched as if seeing it from afar the first group rise like monsters from the earth itself, hidden from view by the low road they'd been using as their cover. He wanted to think, wanted to make some sense of what was happening in his mind, but the sheer desire for survival cut through, leaving him with only the discipline of a veteran to keep him from running to find some place of safety, to avoid seeing again life cut off so abruptly and violently. Seven thousand Ulster man, many adorned with orange sashes of patriotism, marched their way forward as if by sheer weight they would mow the Germans over.

Time shook itself and took up its pace again as Halley heard shots firing and the familiar roar of active battle. He sucked in his breath and moved, propelled on by the fervor and enthusiasm of the men he'd known for such a short time but who were relying on him for survival as much as he relied on them. The Ulster men were a force to be reckoned with it soon became apparent. They were hell bent on success and seemed careless of any shells that landed in their midst. Halley started to think his premonitions of doom had been unfounded as the first battalions swept through the cuts in the German barbed wire and fell upon the first line of trenches with such ferocity that they seemed unstoppable.

He tossed the barrel of the Stokes to Bell as they passed the first wounded, confident now that perhaps it wasn't Hell that awaited them and he could make a difference, save lives and limbs. "Carry on, I'll be right with you!"

"What the blazes?" Bell caught the heavy weapon and started loading, faltering for only a moment as Halley threw back his head, calling on his powers with a yell that seemed to come from his soul itself, blue light surrounding the injured rifleman at his feet. ".. What in the hell?"

Halley pulled the healed rifleman up and shoved him forward to cover. "I told you they had their reasons for putting me here. Now are you going to fire that thing or not?!"

Bell blinked, then spun and aimed from his shoulder, carefully picking his point between British uniforms to send a mortar bomb to the trenches ahead of them. A plume of earth and smoke erupted, spelling death for the Germans it struck. "You're an odd one, lad. But keep it up."

Halley yanked his rifle up to fire at the Germans now rushing forward to meet them. "I know, I know." A concussion of impacted earth and explosive knocked him off his feet and the noise of battle was cut off by a steady hum as his ears protested the overwhelming noise and pressure of the shell that had burst only yards away.

Halley rolled to his knees, instinctively abandoning any thoughts of making himself a standing target as he crawled towards the wounded. He looked back over his shoulder to spot Bell on one knee, bringing the Stokes up to return fire on the placement that had sent out the shell, his bearing steady in the chaos that surrounded him. "God protect him," he mumbled before turning his attentions to saving what men were still within his ability to spare from death.

The pitch of battle rose, forcing itself through Halley's focus. The sense of foreboding crept back with the heat of the now glaring sun. Forced to rest as his powers fatigued him, Halley took shelter in a crater formed by a shell to confront it and shake it if he could. The battle sounded wrong. He had suspected far more than his less experienced companions that the Germans weren't as beaten down by the shelling as had been thought. In Verdun he'd endured five months of bombardment and hadn't counted on a week's worth of heavy guns to drive out a tenacious foe. It was too concentrated, though. Too much right in the middle of the 36th division. He crept to the edge of the crater, pulling out his binoculars. His heart sank as the full realization hit him, a realization he knew most of the other soldiers hadn't come to yet. They were ahead of the line. Only the Ulsters had thrust this far and the holes they'd broken in the first line of German trenches were slowly filling, preventing the flanking divisions from catching up. They'd be damned going back, but he didn't see that as a likelihood anyhow with the spirit of the brave men fighting their way forward even now. He broke from his cover, crawling through the rapidly disintegrating battlefield. He had to find Bell.

He spotted the fearless captain, the Stokes abandoned as Bell faced the very teeth of death to aid his battalion, crawling to within throwing range to lob mortar bombs into the fierce German trench that now blocked the rush of the infantry. Small plumes of dirt showered him from near bullets, but he ignored the rifle fire with determined valor to give his men the chance to advance without being cut down by it themselves. Only when the last of his mortars had been thrown did he move back to a position where he could employ his rifle to cover the rush to take the trench.

Halley crawled to his side. "Captain, we're ahead of the line. We're going to be cut off."

Bell glanced to the side as he reloaded his rifle. "Then there's only one choice, isn't there, lad. We take that hill, and we hold it like the men we are. They'll catch up to us, but our orders are to take the Redoubt."

Halley absorbed Bell's calm and resolution, knowing it came not from inexperience with battle, but from pure guts. "Yes, sir. We take the Redoubt." He lifted his rifle, resolution conquering fear in the presence of the Irishman from Liverpool as he joined in to pick off German infantry that dared to rush against their men. The Ulster men, as if moved by the hand of God, pushed past the trench, their numbers lessened, but still fueled by an inner fire he'd seldom seen on either side of the war. If they'd been underestimated for their spirit and courage in the face of fire, they were laying aside that misconception now. The overload of equipment was being abandoned in the forward press, strewn amongst the dead and wounded.

Halley kept pace with Bell as they advanced with the infantry, the battle becoming a blur of loading, shooting, and reloading. They moved by inches under a sun that glared as if angered by the carnage it was witness to, but they moved. Fallen comrades became a source for resupply of ammunition, but Bell never wavered, his courage enough to spread a cool resolution throughout the men while chaos reigned around them. By now it had become clear to all that there was no retreat, the German artillery placements turning No Man's Land into a cratered otherworldly landscape that would be a deathtrap to any who dared to seek refuge there.

Shouts of "No surrender!" echoed through the Irish as they breached the first defenses of Schwaben Redoubt. Halley spun to find himself in the midst of the most heated fighting yet, close in and bloody. He thrust his bayonet into the neck of a German, then turned to defend against the next one before the body even fell. He couldn't tell if he fought for an hour or mere minutes before a rumble of victory ran through the young men of the 36th who'd made the hill. It took him several seconds of staring around him dumbly to realize they'd taken their objective and the Redoubt was now under British control.

"Hold your cheering, men!" Bell's voice rang out. "We've got to hold it! The other lads will be along, but we're the stuff for now! Look to your arms!" 

As if to underscore the importance of Bell's warning the cries of wounded silenced the cheers as machine gun fire raked into the band of men who held the hill. Halley spun, seeing bodies fall, and looked beyond them to Theipval, the small village the 32nd Division had been assigned to wrest from German control. The enemy clearly still had their hold there and were now turning the full force of their weaponry on the lone victors. To every side men dove for foxholes and sandbags to stave off the onslaught, pinned down and unable to keep their vigilance against the German infantry counterattack that pressed up to again join the fight. Triumph began to melt into confusion and exhaustion. Shells from the Germans rained down behind them, shells from the British side joining the cacophony from ahead. There was nowhere to turn without meeting the fury of war.

Halley crawled to the pile of bodies where the guns of Theipval had taken their bite from the Ulster men. He was driven on by mercy and the knowledge that reinforcements wouldn't be coming for a long time if they managed to force their way past the vicious fire at all. Any man he could put back in the fight gave them a few precious moments more to hold out in the desperate battle to hold their hard-won ground. He was already weak from his powers used between the German trench lines, but he had no choice.

He moved first to those whose groans and cries gave testament to their remaining life, his mind becoming numb behind the dull throb of pain that came with the overexertion of his healing skills. Not far off he could still hear Bell's voice as the intrepid captain rallied confused and shaken boys whose officers had been lost, giving them courage and some semblance of structure to their resistance. He focused on the strong voice of Bell, though he couldn't bother to make out the words. It was all he could do to keep the cover of bodies between himself and the machine guns, use his gifts, and send the revived and healed men crawling to safer positions.

A burst of fire striking close caused him to flatten against the ground. In sheer instinct he grabbed the nearest body and rolled it to hide behind, the dead soldier coming to rest face to face with Halley. His throat, already tight from dust and smoke, seemed to close completely as he stared into the green lifeless eyes of Private Farlane, the cheerful smile forever gone, replaced by a death mask of surprise and pleading. Halley's breath escaped him in a sob. "No, Farlane. You're just a kid," he choked. He dropped his head against Farlane's bullet-riddled chest, the overwhelming hopelessness kindled by his waking premonition leaving him empty of anything beyond fear, sorrow, and guilt.

_Halley... Halley... don't give up... _The familiar and comforting voice of his mother, thousands of miles away, echoed through Halley's mind. The distance between them could be breached by their love and the bond of their powers, but her soft and loving tone was what shook him back to reality, so out of place in this desperate field of death and destruction.

_Mother, I can't do anything. They die anyway. They're just kids, like me. I'm so tired._

_Don't give up. You make a difference. If you save one, you've made a difference. Remember what you're fighting for and don't give up._

Halley closed his eyes, forcing the faces of his dead companion away with every ounce of strength he had to picture his mother's face, the compassion for others that shone in her eyes even when she herself was in pain. _I'll do my best, mother. _He gently pushed Farlane onto his back, reaching up to close his eyes before making his way back to his comrades.

From their vantage on the hill he could see both the horror of their situation and the proof of the 36th Division's valor. Everywhere the British forces had been cut down like fodder for the German artillery that had waited out the barrage of British guns. The Germans seemed poised to make in one day what had been accomplished in months of fierce battle at Verdun upon the fields of the Somme, the river itself tinged brackish by blood and dirt thrown up from the shelling. Those battalions that braved their way into the force of the German defenses to aid the struggling 36th only became losses themselves. If Rawlinson had any sense he'd soon give up on risking more forces to save them, and as the day wore on there would be less reason to do so as the survivors became fewer in number and their grip on the Redoubt became more perilous. They were penned in on all sides and no reinforcements would arrive that day. Halley dropped behind a wall of sandbags, taking the place of a slumped soldier and picking up his rifle. The Ulster men refused to give up, refused to surrender what so many of their division had already given their lives for, and neither would he.

Only as the relentless heat of the day gave way to evening and the shelling slowed to a point where one could hear each burst did Halley slow his pace of fighting and healing. His powers were all but gone and without rest he would pass out. All around were piles of bodies and huddled groups of injured and shaken soldiers. He searched for more ammunition, but the dead had already been scavenged. Neither his powers nor the brave spirit of the men on the hill had been enough. Knots filled his empty stomach as he realized they would have to retreat or die.

Already small packs of men had started the dangerous retreat over the ground they'd struggled that morning to fight their way across. Those who had the strength supported those who didn't or were wounded. Halley fought back tears and wrapped his arm around a wounded man, looking around for Bell as he aided the young private through the dangerous twilight, but his captain was nowhere to be seen. Like staggering ghosts the survivors made their silent trek, the groans and cries of those they passed who were beyond making the journey to safety the only voices to be heard. Each cut like a knife into Halley, another mark of failure.

As he picked his way towards the first line of trenches that had given them a sense of optimism with their early victory, Halley looked up to see the faces of the troops from York, stopped at the trenches, unable to have made it far enough to relieve the embattled men on the Redoubt. The shock in their faces reflected the horror of the men who wound silently past them, aged in one day from boys to old men, youth stolen from even the living by the cruel fates of war. Halley lacked the strength to either rail against them for failing to save them or give them encouragement for having tried so hard. He dropped his gaze once more and focused on his only task that he could accomplish, to put one foot in front of the other and guide his companion over the bloody field. The macabre popping of machine gun fire from the gaps in the barbed wire meant nothing to him other than more dead bodies to litter the landscape. Even survival was beyond his thoughts at this point.

Like insects they crept back to the safety of their holes and collapsed into the trenches, the mud a welcome relief as the tormented and ragged survivors of the battle curled against each other for comfort and reassurance that they were not alone in living through the hell of the disastrous battle. Halley lowered his companion against the wall of the trench and looked up at the passing harrowed faces, trying to recognize someone who could give him word of Bell. He reached out and gripped the boot of another fusilier. "Captain Bell. Did he make it back?"

The man looked down slowly as if in a trance, his ashen face streaked with filth. "Dead. Took it up on the hill. God have mercy," the man mumbled, then continued on his way.

Halley felt his hand fall limp and looked down at it, absorbed in his palm as if it could keep the fact from sinking into his mind that the man he'd come to look to as friend and hero in a few short hours of struggle was gone. Like an unrelenting force it struck home and he curled into a tiny ball in the mud, his fatigued body shuddering with sobs.


	5. Traveling Companions

Shadowhearts: The Powers That Be  
by NightsDawne 

* * *

Chapter 5: Traveling Companions

**Near Hermannstadt, Hungary, 5 July 1916**

Margarete buttoned up the new suit she would be wearing for their trip through enemy territory. Her outfit had been carefully selected to provide maximum mobility, not for its attractive qualities. She would be in the guise of a respectable officer's wife, her figure almost completely obscured under a blue wool dress with mid-calf skirt and a V-neck that was softened to a modest view with no cleavage. For a Parisienne it was almost a mortal sin to be so plain, but she sucked it up, determined to do it for the war effort. Sensible shoes, thick black wool stockings, and a straw bucket hat completed her transformation from goddess to typical kept woman. "I'm itching!" She grumbled and slipped out of the small stand of trees that had served for her dressing room.

Keith glanced over, keeping his head still for the Roma barber who was cutting his hair to a more contemporary style. Fluent in their language, Keith had managed to gain the assistance of the wanderers in procurement of disguises and travel arrangements into Hungary while Margarete had handled their documentation needs and planned the second leg of their journey. "Don't scratch. Not everything is made of silk or leather, you know."

Margarete gave him a look born of extreme annoyance with her clothing. "It's hot, it's itchy, and this neckline is ridiculous."

"Are you going to complain all the way to Vienna or are you just getting it all out now?" Keith stood, brushing loose clumps of blond hair from the shoulders of his Austrian uniform. With his hair shortened to a length acceptable for a military officer, his high cheekbones and angular jaw were even more in evidence. With a few snips of the shears he'd been transformed from a figure out of the past into a strikingly good-looking man of the 20th century.

Margarete found herself drawn out of her irritation slightly by the new Keith. "You should cut your hair more often."

"I'll take that as approval." Keith walked over to remove Margarete's hat, then pulled her close, giving her a deep kiss.

Margarete pushed against him in surprise, then returned the kiss. "What was that all about?"

"It doesn't matter what you're wearing, you're still beautiful, and I've been longing to repeat that while I was awake for weeks now." He smiled. "Besides, if you're going to be my wife we ought to be able to act as if we've done it before."

"Acting as your wife. Not your wife." Margarete stepped away from him to fix her hat. "How far into the role do you plan to go?"

"Well it's not as if I need to worry about you giving yourself away with a virginal blush."

Margarete spun and laid a slap to Keith's cheek that knocked his face to the side. "Oh God. I'm sorry, Keith." He put his hand to his cheek in surprise. She turned away, trying to figure out why it had angered her so. Normally such a comment from a man would spawn a laugh and joking flirtation from her, but Keith wasn't just any man. Could she be falling for him? She'd had half a crush on Yuri when they first met, but it had been obvious that even her looks couldn't draw him from Alice and she had a strict rule about stepping in on another girl's territory. Still, Yuri was rude by nature and they'd managed to keep a banter of innuendo going between them as a joke. Keith on the other hand was a gentleman. Maybe all she wanted was for him to see her as a lady.

"It's alright, I deserved it." Keith stepped back. "I do apologize, Margarete. I hope this won't end our friendship. I will be more careful in the future."

Margarete turned as she heard his footsteps walking away. _I don't want you to be more careful, damn it. I just don't want to be.. Oh, hell, I don't know what I want._ She sighed and stooped down to fix her stockings.

**Paris, France, 8 July 1916**

Alice stepped off the train, smoothing her skirt down and looking over the platform as Yuri kicked their suitcase out next to her, then joined her, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.

"Halley's mom and yours should get together." Yuri squinted and picked up the suitcase.

Alice sighed. "I'm sure Koudelka had good reason for contacting us and telling us to come here."

"Yeah, sure. Head the opposite direction we're supposed to." Yuri took Alice's hand and started out of the train station.

"Is it so opposite? You heard the rumors on the train. The mysterious deaths in Strasbourg, Dijon, and Bourjes? Bodies drained of blood?"

"Yeah, well, there's a war on and everyone's on edge anyway. We don't know that it has anything to do with vampires." Yuri was pulled to a stop by Alice as Halley's mother's voice echoed to them again, strained by distance and concern. He had to concentrate to make out the faint words.

_Halley.... in pain .... hospital .... please, I beg... _

Alice clapped her hand to her mouth in worry. "Oh no, not dear sweet Halley."

"Halley," complained Yuri, letting go of her hand to rub his temple, "is a tough son of a bitch, not sweet. What the hell is he doing here anyway? He's supposed to be in America."

"If he's here, we have to do something, Yuri. Please!" Alice looked to her fiancé pleadingly.

Yuri looked away, irritated that she would think he wouldn't do whatever he could to help their young friend. "Fine, whatever, let's find him." He grabbed her hand and stormed forward. He set the suitcase down again on the street, unfamiliar with the area. "Where do we go?"

"Yuri!"

Yuri groaned in recognition of the voice, not turning around. "Tell me he's not behind us."

Alice turned, her face lighting up in a smile. "Meiyuan! Imagine finding you here!"

"It's like some kind of recurring nightmare." Yuri finally turned as the small and stocky man of Chinese birth and mysterious origins trotted up, beaming with joy at seeing his old friends. In spite of his obvious Asian upbringing, Meiyuan's platinum blond hair and twinkling blue eyes seemed more in keeping with a Scandinavian, only more enhanced by his current short hair and pinstriped sack suit. "What do you want?"

"Oh, Yuri, don't be mean." Meiyuan's round face took on a pout of hurt before the smile took over again. "It's fate, it must be, me seeing you again. And you still look as handsome as ever! Oh, hello, Alice. So, what brings you to the City of Lights?"

"Business. Which means we're busy." Yuri picked up the suitcase again, pulling Alice's hand forward so that it was quite clear to Meiyuan their relationship. "So it was nice seeing you again, but my fiancée and I have to get going."

"Fiancée? You two are getting married?" Disappointment cast its tone in Meiyuan's voice, but it lasted for only a second. "Well, congratulations. I can't say I'm not jealous, of course, but you make a lovely couple."

Alice patted Meiyuan's shoulder comfortingly. "I'm sure there's a man out there who is perfect for you, Meiyuan."

"I don't suppose you could introduce us," said the small man hopefully.

"Alice, we have to find Halley, remember?" Yuri turned in annoyance, hoping they could escape Meiyuan's presence. It made him uncomfortable enough to be around a man whose tastes ran towards other men. It was downright creepy that he seemed destined to be the ideal of affections from the same man and even worse that no matter where he went he was doomed to run into his admirer.

"Halley? He's here as well?" Meiyuan trotted after the couple like a friendly puppy. "I'll bet he's grown."

"And still not eighteen," warned Yuri. He wasn't quite ready to consider Meiyuan a true pervert, but even when Halley had been fifteen the Chinese acupuncturist had been fond of gazing at the kid in a way that made him edgy and nervous. As much as he would welcome someone else drawing Meiyuan's attention away from him, he didn't relish the idea of loosing him on a teenager, especially without Keith there to ease tensions. Keith had never been unnerved by Meiyuan's wandering eyes or tendency to engage in flirtatious touches, leaving Yuri suspect of the vampire's sexual preferences as well, but at least he'd taken the heat off of the younger men while he was around.

"Oh. Well, when's his birthday?"

Alice deflected the tone of the conversation before it could get to the point where Yuri snapped. "He's in the hospital, Meiyuan."

Meiyuan's eyes widened in horror. "Oh, the dear sweet boy. Well, in that case, I'm definitely coming along. My skills will come in handy, I'm positive of it. I'll have him feeling wonderful again."

Yuri whimpered softly. Great, now they'd be stuck with Meiyuan.

**Sainte Anne Hospital, Paris, France, 9 July 1916**

"What's wrong with this one?"

"He was sent from the front, from Somme. Apparently couldn't take the strain of the battle. They found him wandering in No Man's Land trying to provide medical attention to rotting corpses. Hadn't eaten in a week. We have to force him even now."

"No disease, no wounds. Just this disorder of hysteria?"

"They're calling it shell shock, now. Makes you wonder if the ones who get killed are the lucky ones."

The quiet voices seemed to be coming from a radio play as Halley rocked slowly in the bed. Part of him was aware that he was no longer at the front, that he was within the safe confines of a hospital, surrounded by clean sheets and hushed concern. It lacked the reality of the scenes that replayed in his mind. He was trapped in a world of concussions of sound, burrowed in a trench comprised of torn and shattered bodies. Dead men mocked him for his inability to save them, Farlane and Bell reaching for him, their voices full of cheer and courage as they beckoned him to join them, but he couldn't. He was alive, but not alive, imprisoned in a mental No Man's Land. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I did my best."

The doctor rubbed his mustache as he watched the young man before him with an air of consternation. "Is he in a state where he can see his visitors?"

"They're very insistent. I tried to tell them he wasn't fit for it." The orderly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Let them in." The doctor turned from the patient with a sigh. "Perhaps they can do him some good. There's very little we can do."


	6. Women and Men

Shadowhearts: The Powers That Be  
by NightsDawne

The Gods of History can please deflect their bolts of destruction from me for the use of unauthorized futuristic technology employed by one beautiful French spy. It was in the game. Game purists, however, will note that I do my best to switch Margarete's secret weapons from outrageous to fictionally plausible with sufficient suspension of disbelief.

* * *

Chapter 6: Women and Men

**Near Eisenstadt, Austria, 9 July 1916**

Keith closed the door of their train compartment as Margarete opened the case at her side, designed to pass for a business attaché bag. He'd carried it for her to keep from arousing suspicion, but had felt her anxious eyes on it the entire time. He sat down across from her and tilted his head in curiosity as she pulled from it her most valued tool, a miniaturized version of a Marconi that allowed her to contact her associates in the highly evolved French Intelligence.

"Oh good, it's safe," Margarete muttered as she replaced it gently in its case.

"I assure you I was as careful as possible." Keith leaned against the window, gazing at the beauty opposite him. While even the simplest of technologies was a wonder to his 18th century experience, Margarete was capable of understanding and using items that to him seemed pure sorcery. He'd become acclimated to gaslights, long distance communication, even automobiles and harnessed electricity, but they still left him feeling out of place in the new world.

Moreso than anything else, though, it was the social structure that confused and overwhelmed him. The days of glory for monarchs had already begun to fade when he fell into his two century slumber, but now it was clear that even the last vestiges of the world he knew were facing their final hour. While the class system had never been his first choice, it was becoming nearly impossible for him to make the switch to understanding the rapid pace at which people could change the roles they were born to. The line between commoner and nobleman had been blurred to indistinction by this phenomenon called the middle class.

The most startling changes, however, had been in the attitudes and power of women. He was happy to see that they viewed themselves as equals and were beginning to claim their place beside the other half of humanity. He fully approved of them having educations and choices beyond marriage and childbearing. He was at a loss, though, as to how to relate to them, these 20th century women. He had been raised to provide the opposite gender with chivalry, charm, and protection, but these hardly seemed adequate to women who deemed themselves capable of caring for their own immediate needs.

Margarete championed this new spirit of independence, a force stronger than most men when it came to combat and with courage that paled their attempts at valor. He couldn't question her femininity, for she was by far the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen in his life, but she wasn't at all delicate or submissive. Up until the rebuke of her slap he'd made the mistake of assuming that because she outshone men in her forwardness and fighting that he could treat her as he could any of the men he'd called comrades. In the days since, he'd held his tongue, struggling to reassess their relationship.

Margarete caught his gaze and raised a brow. "What?"

"Nothing." Keith smiled slightly. "How does that thing work anyhow?"

"The Marconi?" Margarete sighed. "It turns sound into radio waves and sends them out to be picked up by an antenna and turned back into sound at another Marconi station. My pilot has one, as does HQ. And there's about a thousand other stations, which is why I can't use it right now. The radio waves would be picked up and it would certainly look highly suspicious."

"Ah." Keith nodded knowingly with complete ignorance. "Radio.. waves."

Margarete rolled her eyes. "I can't teach you everything that's happened since the Industrial Revolution. It just works, trust me."

Keith sat forward, fidgeting and once more feeling left behind. "Sorry. I don't mean to sound so stupid. I am truly interested in these things."

Margarete softened, reaching out to give his hand a squeeze. "Don't worry. Most people don't know and don't care how things work so long as they work. I didn't mean to insult you. Maybe when this is all done you can read up on everything you missed."

"I suppose. It can't be boring at least."

Margarete sat back, studying him. "That's why you went to sleep last time, wasn't it. It must have been a shock to wake up to all the new things that have been invented since the 1700s."

"That was part of it. I told you my reason." Keith looked out the window. "The pace of modern life is exhausting. Exciting, but tiring."

Margarete grinned. "Well, I'm sure there's things you know that I don't. Like how to milk a cow or something."

Keith raised a brow and looked back at her. "I am a prince, not a milkmaid, mon amie."

"Okay, bad example. But you know all that hocus pocus summoning stuff."

"Rituals, you mean?" Keith chuckled. "Good enough, though not too helpful in bringing me up to date."

"Fine, I'll take you to a library and let you study to your heart's content once we're done, alright? You're starting to make me feel sorry for you." Margarete offered a wink.

"Oh, poor, piteous me." Keith draped his wrist dramatically across his brow.

Margarete snickered. "Will you stop that?"

"Only if you tell me one thing."

Margarete crossed her arms. "What now? Do you want me to explain the locomotive engine?"

"No, I'm sure there's a book on that." He leaned forward. "Why is it that someone as beautiful as you never married?"

Margarete frowned. "Well why didn't you? You're older than I am."

"I asked you first, though."

Margarete shrugged. "Never had a proposal that suited me. Men tend to resent their wives continuing to work once the wedding vows are said and I'm not ready to give up my career yet."

"I can understand that. You're very good at what you do, but it's easy to see a man being threatened by such a capable woman."

"Hrmph. I'm not sure if that's an insult or a compliment." Margarete leaned back in the seat, swinging her crossed leg. "Your turn."

Keith smiled sheepishly. "To be honest, I'm just waiting for the woman who interests me enough to consider a lifetime spent with her who's interested in me as well."

Margarete arched an eyebrow. "You're waiting for a woman to be interested in you? Keith, women fawn over you."

"Not the one I'm interested in, though." He looked away from her as the door opened and the conductor leaned in.

"Tickets, please." The man took the ticket that Keith produced, then looked expectantly to Margarete, who was staring intently at her companion. "Ticket?"

"Gertrude, darling," Keith switched easily to German, "the conductor needs your ticket."

Margarete shook herself and drew it out of her pocket, holding it up for the conductor to take. "Terribly sorry."

"Not a problem.." The conductor glanced at the ticket as he punched it. "..Frau Strauss. You are going to Vienna?"

Margarete smiled. "Yes, taking advantage of my husband's furlough."

The conductor gave Keith a respectful nod. "Enjoy your trip. Sorry to have disturbed you."

"Quite alright." Keith took back the tickets.

The conductor smiled and stepped back out. "Oh, one more thing."

Keith's heart skipped a beat, but he kept his expression placid. "Yes?"

"Do be careful. There are rumors that people have been disappearing in Vienna. Officers in particular."

Keith nodded. "Thank you. I will be cautious."

The door closed and Keith and Margarete exchanged solemn glances.


End file.
